I’m a firm believer that you create magic all around you just by being yourself and giving in to your more adorable base urges. My groundless need to drink Belgian chocolate milk at Whole Foods’ yesterday lead to our naming of our writer’s collective after the silky, delicious carraggean filled desert milk.

As for the collective itself, well… aside from the fact that we never actually got to my or Fizz’s submissions for group critique, it was interesting. There were a few rules set in place that made the game more like a complex writing exercise than a natural critique. First a little background info, everyone submitted a minimum of either 2 pages of a story or 5 pages of a screenplay. There were five of us and we allotted about three hours for this first meeting.

The rules were simple but evolving; when your story is being discussed there is a cone of silence in effect for the writer. Only after the group has thoroughly exhausted all possible suggestions is the writer then allowed to put everything in context. It was a flawed but somehow more thrilling version of a think tank: an imagine tank. How can you critique two pages of the barest traces of an idea? You just make shit up stream of consciousness style -sometimes interjecting with a savvy pop culture reference to make yourself seem smart. Though to be fair, I think all my self aggrandizing references were useful observations. I’m sure everyone thinks theirs were useful observations too.

It almost feels like training for working on the writing staff for a show like The Office. The humor that came out of our interactions was honestly funnier than anything we were writing. I mean, there were two Brians there. Myself and a bearded fellow. We couldn’t decide how to differentiate between us. Do they call me, boo? No. No one outside of my Japanese rock world calls me that. It’s a nickname from a very specific time and place that belongs to history. Incidentally, I can’t wait ’til my daughter cocks her head up at me quizzically and asks me why that man called me ‘boo.’ We tried out Stewdog, but it came at the expense of everyone’s dignity. Every time JB used it on me I wanted to pound back a brewski and belch like a frat boy. It got so ridiculous that I eventually told them to call me Stevesie or Steve Z, which was supposed to be a sly The Life Aquatic reference but got a laugh for, what I believe, are other non Wes Anderson related reasons. Uncultured barbarians.

We’ve decided to meet again next week when my turn in the stocks will come. I may have a very different take on things then.

For now… Proost! (That’s Danish for Cheers!)

I went to see the new Scream movie with the same morbid curiosity that i afford remakes of horror classics -which turned out to be a pretty good mind set to be in because that’s the hook this time out. The meta jokes are Inception deep from the get go and the screenplay, credited here to original writer Kevin Williamson is endlessly clever and almost self deprecating. Where the movie really paled in comparison to its less stupidly branded s1st3rs was, unfortunately, in the rather critical scares dept. None of the scares were particularly frightening and worse yet, the cleverness of the dialogue failed to carry over into the kill scenes. Not that I need Rube Goldbergian devices to get a thrill… Scream has always been sort of blue collar in the classic slasher sense.

But looking back…

My favorite moment of the entire series is actually from Scream 2, when Syd and Hailee are in the back of the police cruiser after Ghostface crashes the car and they have to C R A W L over the unconcious killer and out the open driver’s side window from the back seat to escape. That scene is one tense moment after another until the tension is so taut it nearly garrotes you on the intensity.

Scream 4 doesn’t have single scene that comes close to that and in fact has several scenes of such absolute boneheadness on the part of the victims that you will leave the theater with a pounding welt on your forehead from slapping it so often. The scene with the publicist is especially awful. Wouldn’t you use your cell phone to, Oh I dunno, call the police? They had jokes about that in the first movie using a goddamn dial-up modem for the love of Jason.

I enjoyed Scre4m. I just didn’t scream a whole lot. Not that I usually do but pound for pound I’d put that first scene in Scream, the first, against any other scary movie kill.

Only one day removed from Facebook and i miss it like a lover but its absence, and the subsequent withdrawals has revealed in true fever dream fashion, its true form to me. Social media makes us all mind readers. And it comes with all the caveats which usually accompany that most feared and revered of mutant powers. I’m addicted to hearing the inane inner monologue of the general populace while simultaneously driven mad by the drivel and repulsed by my weakness.

Day 1 of staycation has been a bit of a wash so far. Productivitywise. Woke up in the morning feelin’ decidedly unlike P.Diddy and ate chocolate chip pancakes with Takko. Went to see the 10am matinee of Scre4m. When i’m in writing mode i call these kind of activities “filling the box”. … Wait, no I don’t! I’ve never said anything that scholarly in my life. I’m completerly full of shit. Typo but i like it.

Truth is… watching the fourth Scream movie is vital to my process. Yes. It is. More on this later. Now here I sit in Whole Foods in Tribecca awaiting the convening of a writerly collectve I agreed to sit in with. It feels like a blind date for a gang bang. Honestly.

This is called being proactive.

I loathe the word “staycation” which has been squawked at me several times since I told people that, “yes, I’m taking a week off and no, I’m not going anywhere.” The truth is, I’m not going to “stay.” I’m not going to be a good dog. I’m going to be a very, very naughty dog. I’m going off my run. I’m running without a leash.

This vacation is a respite from the daily grind in the most common and uninteresting sense but it’s so much more than that. This time is time I’ve set aside and earmarked for writing and living and misbehaving. As the arrival date of my baby draws near, I find myself with something to prove. Either I am a badass, rock ‘n roll, superstar writer/producer motherfucker, or I’m not. I’ve given myself 9 days to finish a screenplay I’ve had kicking in the back of my mind for years. A screenplay I intend to submit for fame, glory and cash prizes.

I’m going to chronicle the progress here, as I take my leave of the more time consuming social media and open my own private conduit to like minded monsters. (My nickname is “boo” after all…)

Writing isn’t just about putting words on paper. It’s about creating a canvas, filling yourself with vivid and then jerking all the colors of the wind until the crayons get jealous.

Dance. Mummies. Dance until you vibrate the dead skin right off.